


smile where you are

by insunshine



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve fucked just the once, between the initial table read and the first days of shooting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smile where you are

They’ve fucked just the once, between the initial table read and the first days of shooting. Matt and Daisy have no parameters in their relationship (although, Karen says, “Snogging a bint by some rubbish bins is different than taking her home, yeah?”) and Karen hasn’t met Magical Mike yet, although it’s on the horizon. He’s a friend of a friend of her cousin from Swansea. He’s fit, even Matt can see that. Tall and muscular, but with the sweetest smile and the thickest glasses.

Kaz likes her blokes a bit thick, he thinks, even though it’s unkind.

Her legs go on forever, she’s the type of Amazon that could get a man in trouble if she wasn’t so busy getting herself there. They get on instantly, as soon as she points out that the band on his shirt have been disbanded for the last fifteen years and, “Never made a solid start in the first place, mate. You’re The Doctor now, yeah? Stop aligning yourself with losers.”

Matt stares and she stares back, straight in his eyes until she can’t take it anymore, ducking her head under that curtain of fire she calls hair and laughing herself hoarse. 

“I was joking,” she breathes, speaking between loud, hiccoughing gasp-laughs that are entirely charming for their artlessness. “No need to look so offended.”

Matt thinks about defending himself; his sartorial choices, but decides against it in the end. The shirt was a gift from Daisy, back when Daisy still bought him the kind of presents he could wear in public. (So a week ago, maybe.)

They go out for a pint after the read, after the wardrobe fittings (—and how bizarre, to think of David and Chris being fitted for their clothes, and Tom and William Hartnell, and Patrick Trouton, too.) and Karen drinks him under the table, which isn’t hard, considering he’s a lightweight and she’s Scottish.

“Och, yeah,” she says, laying the brogue on thick, just to make him laugh. She is successful, and he nearly falls off his stool, laughing. She does fall, head bashing into his knee and laying her flat against the grimy pub floor. He’s expecting her to shriek or something, and she does, but it’s with laughter, pink spreading out across her cheeks like a burn. Her hair is mussed and she’s got a good old shiner starting to purple from the bump. She is resplendent. 

“Say,” Matt says, offering her a hand up. She takes it with a strong grip and shoves him when she’s on her feet again. He doesn’t topple over, but it’s a close thing, and he knocks into the older woman to his left. She’s been glaring at him for the past hour. He’ll have buy her a pint before they leave to make it right.

“Yes?” Karen trills, giggling again. She’s so bloody tall that when she tilts toward him, her chin fits comfortably over his shoulder. 

Matt clears his throat, peering off all actorly into the middle distance and says, “We should go back to mine,” clearly.

Karen’s eyes go wide, but just slightly, and she counters with, “Do you have some lovely etchings that you just have to show me?” She can’t keep a straight face, which is a problem, because he can’t either.

“Yes,” Matt says. “Absolutely.”

So they fuck, once. On the sofa in his rented flat in Cardiff with the windows open to combat the oppressive heat and to smell the rain in the air. 

“You can smell the rain coming,” Karen says, half-naked in just her bra and frilly pants. She’s pale all over, not a blemish on her.

Matt quirks a brow and says, “Can you?” tipping his head back to try. She rolls her eyes, socking him hard on the shoulder, so at least they’re matched in terms of bruises. “Abi will murder us tomorrow, you realize,” he says, and Karen grins as she winds closer to him, skin nearly translucent. She looks like human-shaped clotted cream, or perhaps pure, unblemished snow. 

“Let her,” Karen says, and then she kisses him, no fear or shame at all clouding her limbs or judgement. It’s surely the drink, but Matt kisses her back fiercely, and that’s all it is.

A one off between mates, she calls it as she dresses in the morning. Her hair is an undone sunrise cascading messily down over her shoulders, and the bruise over her eye is an ugly, mottled brown. She’s a Botticelli Venus in a River Island sundress. 

“See you at work, yeah?” she asks, tugging her torn pantyhose in her purse, and pinching his side.

She’s gone by the time he’s righted himself, and he doesn’t bother repeating a goodbye to the empty flat. It’s not a film, and besides, he’s too good for that.


End file.
